


The Bard Prince

by TheElkMaidenn



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: And Then Geralt Finds It, And how people deal with grief, Angst, Faked Suicide, Heavy Angst, I Haven't Played The Games, I Made The Geography Up, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It's Mainly Angst For The First Few Chapters, Jaskier Writes A Love Letter, Literally Everything In This Is Made Up, M/M, Not Beta Read, Read at Your Own Risk, Royal Jaskier | Dandelion, Suicide Notes, Theres Lots of Tears, also, and gerslt is not the healthiest mentally, keep this in mind, this deals with grief
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27820975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheElkMaidenn/pseuds/TheElkMaidenn
Summary: Prince Julian was always made for performing, rather than ruling. His parents knew this and sent him to the continent to live his dream freely.But many years later, and after one too many heartbreaks, he feels he must return home.Geralt has been hearing worrying rumours about his bard and sets off to find him, only to discover he's too late.This fic contains vague descriptions of poor personal health, mentions of suicide, and the general thoughts that come with these kinds of fics. If anything triggers you, please stop reading and have  warm glass of milk, or whatever it is you drink.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73





	1. The Death of a Bard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't played the games, not for lack of trying, and I wrote this at the beginning of the year at 3 AM and recently remembered it existed. I only have a few chapters, but I've decided to publish it as motivation (hopefully) to continue it. No promises, though.

When he was young, Prince Julian Alfred Pankratz always seemed to be singing. His mother told him he learned to sing before he learned to talk and, as such, she called him her little songbird. One of his first memories, in fact, was singing to a small audience consisting of his parents, older brother, and his grandmother. Because of this, his people loved him. Everywhere he went, whether it be a night out with his friends or to a large gathering with other kingdoms, he always performed at least once. As he got older, it became increasingly clear that performing was what he was made for, and as a result, his princely duties took to the side-lines, especially as it was his older brother, Vincent, who was the Crown Prince and would be the one inheriting the throne, so nobody seemed to mind. This, of course, did not mean that he did not learn everything he was supposed to. He was taught the ways of the sword and bow, he was taught the ways of politics and war, and most unfortunately for him, he was taught that not every marriage was a marriage bonded in love. His parents had it lucky, he knew. When his mother was still Princess Annabella of Island Nation of Vannelsi, she met his father and instantly fell in love when he went over to represent his own father as Crown Prince Yasin Pankratz of Tekkijauda. Their marriage was arranged for them to help strengthen bonds between the two nations, and they had so far led a peaceful and fulfilling life leading Tekkijauda together with their two sons. It was the kind of life that Julian could only hope for. 

When he finally reached 18, after much debate between his parents, who wanted for him to be happiest, and tutors, who wanted to continue his education as a prince instead of a bard, until it was agreed upon that he could be sent away to the Continent to Oxenfurt University to complete his studies as he saw fit.

Unfortunately, as with all good things, the peace did not last in Tekkijauda. When Julian was in his final year, he received a coded letter from Vincent, saying that some unknown man had entered their parent’s bedchambers at night and had attempted to kill their father. Thankfully, he had failed and had been quickly dispatched of, but to be safe, it would be best if Julian stayed on the Continent for the time being and kept a low profile. After receiving this letter, Julian finished his studies and reportedly disappeared (though not failing to send a coded letter to his family to reassure them that he was okay), and Jaskier, the travelling bard was born.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It had been three months, now, since Geralt had sent him away with the wish to never see him again, and one since he had started noticing his stalkers. He had made the mistake of going into the chamber of one rather wealthy lord and having a somewhat drunk conversation with his wife, though nothing serious happened. Unfortunately for Jaskier, said wife, very drunkenly, removed her clothes while they were talking (complaining it was too hot) and has fallen asleep on the covers. Jaskier himself had been too drunk to realise this was a Bad Thing and had continued talking to nothing and no-one, that is until the very angry lord had stridden in, seen him, and immediately accused him of some very nasty things. Ever since then, Jaskier had noticed the rather shifty men following him. Due to his training during his younger years, he had been able to consistently shake them off quite consistently. It was only after a month of them still managing to find him again, every single time, did he start to get worried. Thankfully, he knew what to do. He was going to pull the best performance of his life and fake his own death, before returning home, at last, to see how things were. 

It only took a few days to plan, but the weeks after were the most important, as preparation is key. He knew that he was well known and that his sudden disappearance would lead to a lot of questions if things were not done correctly. Every town he entered, he kept his head down, scuffing his shoes and keeping his shoulders hunched as his lute banged against his back. He made a show of barely eating anything and only playing with his food if some were given to him, either out of sympathy or in payment for his services. Even his singing was becoming more lifeless and the songs no longer so happy. He made sure to compose at least two new ones about heartbreak and the pain of living without people who cared for him. Soon, word started to travel that the White Wolf’s lonely bard was losing his touch as well as his will to live. Every new town he entered, he received pitying looks and even occasionally, a shoulder to cry on. It was only when he reached Posada, where everything had started for his friendship with Geralt, did he finally stop his travels. He spent a week, only performing when bullied into it, mainly sitting in the back corner where he had met his once friend and doing his best impression of brooding. It gave him a lot of time to think. Would word reach Geralt? How would he react? Would he care? What was he doing now? Did he regret his words? Jaskier hoped so but knew that it didn’t matter because, if everything went as planned, Jaskier would be dead in a matter of days, and Julian would be heading back to his homeland, away from his shady stalkers and friends he had made on the Continent. Jaskier new that he would miss this life, but he also knew that he had to return home someday and that now was the most sensible time to do that. Finally, after not eating the dinner placed before him by the barmaid who kept giving him worried glances, he went over and requested the one thing he would need to really sell his performance completely.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, voice rough from disuse, as he hadn’t spoken or sung in the last two day. The motherly innkeeper’s wife looked at him with sad eye and nodded. “May I please make use of something to write a letter with?”

“Of course, dear.” She sighed, reaching under the bar, and bringing out two large sheets of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink. “Just leave them in your room when you’re done, and Lillianna will bring it downstairs in the morning when she does her cleaning rounds.” She said, before seemingly reluctantly going to serve the rabble of rowdy men who had just walked through the door.

Jaskier went upstairs to the room he was renting and quickly picked up his lute where he had left it and checked it for any sign of damage. Upon seeing none, he sighed in relief and sat at the desk to compose the greatest of all letters. Something to make mothers weep upon a simple mention and stone-hearted men to shed a tear at. Julian sat and wrote Jaskier’s final words. A suicide note. For the man who made him and the man who broke him.

It was well after midnight when he was done and he sat for yet another hour, preparing himself to finally let go of Jaskier. It was only when the sky started lightening, did he realise that he was only procrastinating. With one final shakedown and a quick note to the innkeeper and his family thanking him for their hospitality and to use the last of his money to pay for any meals and rooms for those who could not pay for themselves, he picked up his lute and his favourite coat, put his letter in his pocket, and headed off towards the clifftops that looked out over the sea, thanking his lucky stars that no one was awake at this time. When he reached his destination (somewhere he had chosen before even stepping foot into the town), he double-checked that his supplies were still hidden in the small crevice he had put them. Letting out a breath of relief, Jaskier sat at the clifftop, his long legs dangling over the edge, as he prepared himself to finally let go of the person he had grown to love to be. Again, the thoughts came back. Would Geralt be sad? Would he feel guilty? Would he come looking for him? Do Witchers really not feel anything? He knew that these thoughts were pointless.

Finally, just as the sun was peaking over the horizon, and with one last deep breath, Jaskier was let go.

Julian stood to his feet, shrugging off Jaskier’s coat and dumping it on the floor with only slight regret. His beloved lute was placed beside him with considerably more care, he kicked off his shoes with little regard for his socks, and finally, his note was carefully tucked between the strings and wooden neck of his lute, hoping with everything in his body that Geralt doesn’t receive it.

With two quick strides, he was able to reach his travelling equipment and leave the area before anyone would notice. It was only when he was a safe distance away, did he stop to change into suitable long-distance travelling clothes, and cut his growing hair into an unrecognisable style. Finally, the weight of what he had just done came crashing down on him and Julian had to take a long moment to regain himself. In the distance, a distressed cry echoed and immediately knew he was too close. He didn’t want his stalkers discovering him at all, let alone right now. With newfound resolve, Prince Julian Alfred Pankratz made his way home as the world mourned the loss of Jaskier, the White Wolf’s bard.


	2. Wolf's Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt goes looking for Jaskier. Denial is one hell of a drug.
> 
> Basically, everything about this is angst, well, more angst than the last chapter.

It had been seven months since Geralt had said those horrible things to his only friend. Had turned everything good in his life into the worst pain of all. Had blamed Jaskier for everything and wished him out of his life. It had been three months since he had started hearing worrying rumours about his bard. It had been two months since he had found Ciri and sent her to live in a small hidden cottage with Yennefer while he looked for his bard. It was one month since he truly became worried. Everywhere he went there were rumours of the Weeping Bard, as people had taken to calling him, though nobody had actually seen him cry. People would sit in the corners and mutter about the Witcher’s Bard all on his lonesome, barely speaking, barely drinking, barely eating. He heard new songs he really wished didn’t exist. They were very obviously Jaskier’s own, but instead of the thrill of a new adventure or the love of a woman, all they seemed to be about were heartache and hopelessness. Every crowd that heard them always became sombre and they were usually played at the end of a night to calm people when they should be heading to bed. 

What really got him worried, though, was when the rumours that he had stopped hit him. It wasn’t the fact that Jaskier had stopped that worried Geralt. It was the where. He knew that nothing good was happening and that he’d need to find him as soon as possible. He had seen this sort of thing happen too often in his long life and did not want to even think about the possibilities that he could be the cause of such a thing, especially for his only friend and one of the few people he truly cared about. Not in someone who always seemed so full of life and joy. 

Geralt’s train of thought came to a crashing halt when he heard it. He was close to what was hopefully his last destination before he saw Jaskier again, and he did not want to think about what it could mean. From the inn, just at the entrance to the town, the sounds of a woman sobbing could be heard, along with a sad male voice gently trying to reassure the woman. 

“You barely even knew the boys. How were you to know he would go this far and not just mope about some more?” It obviously wasn’t the man’s best attempt, nor the right thing to say. The sobbing seemed to become angry and the woman’s voice rose to match it. “You could tell from the way he looked, for starters!” She hissed. “He obviously wasn’t taking care of himself. His clothes hung off him like he was nothing but a skeleton! His hair obviously hadn’t been cut in far too long! And if that wasn’t enough, every day he came downstairs looking more and more tired!” The woman stopped for breath. And that was all Geralt needed to hear. 

He had finally reached the entrance to the town. With very little thought to it, he handed off Roach to a stable boy and made his way into the inn. He could still hear the pair upstairs, but it was drowned out by the much louder conversations downstairs. Keeping his hood up and his eyes low, he made his way to the far corner table, noticing mildly that this is where he first met Jaskier. If he were to find him anywhere, it would be here. 

As soon as he sat down, a hush fell over the room, though only for a moment. Geralt tried hard not to think too much about it and instead started focussing his thoughts on what he would say to Jaskier when he found him. He knew that he needed to start with apologising, but he wasn’t sure that would quite cut it. He knew that excuses were out of the question. He also knew that he could very easily make things worse. His spiralling thoughts were cut off by the sudden presence next to him. Apology ready on his lips, he looked up. He tried not to think about the disappointment curling in his stomach when he saw, not Jaskier, but a young woman with an apron on with the name Lillianna stitched above her left breast. Her red-rimmed eyes looked at him expectantly. Before she could say anything, Geralt lifted a hand to stop her. 

“I’m afraid I have no coin. I’m just hoping to meet a friend.” He said, the disappointment colouring his words, though not without a fight. 

“You don’t have to worry about coin, sir. The poor bard left enough to feed and bed at least twelve people.” Lillianna tried to smile, but it appeared wobbly and wrong.

“What bard?” Asked Geralt, a deep pit seeming to open up in his stomach. 

“The Witcher’s Bard came here not that long ago.” She stopped, seemingly to reign in her own emotions. She was obviously shaken from something. “He left all his money to help travellers in need when he finally…left.” 

The way she hesitated over the word “left” really didn’t feel comforting. And Jaskier, leaving all his coin? Nope. There are some thoughts that need to stay locked up until further proof is given. Before he could ask for more, a particularly loud conversation caught his attention from across the room. 

“-jumped off the cliff just west of ‘ere. Heard ‘e left a le’’er to somun. Some lost love is my guess. Or pruhaps a sister. Can’ really know with Jessa not talking to no-one ‘bout it.” One rather uneducated voice ‘whispered’ drunkenly. 

“I heard it was that Witcher.” Piped up a slightly less drunk voice. 

“You wha’! You think a man would kill himself over a Witcher! Are you havin’ a laugh!?” 

“Well, tha’s what I heard! He travelled with one, I fink. I hope the feelingless bastard rots in Hell, I say!” 

Everything went cold. The sound of cheering from the rowdy group was drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ear. Geralt sharply looked up to the startled woman, hood falling. 

“Where’s Jaskier?” He demanded. The woman just stood in shock, staring just above his eyes. “WHERE’S JASKIER!” He bellowed, panic gripping his every cell. Silence filled the room. 

Every eye turned towards him. The atmosphere, once sombre, was now icy as everyone regarded him. The scared woman cleared her throat before finally finding her voice again. “Are you Geralt?” She asked, her face pinched. Geralt nodded once, waiting for her to answer his question. “Come with me.” And with that, she turned and practically fled the room, up the stairs. As he followed her, he felt the room’s gaze track him until he was out of sight. Only then was the silence replaced by angry muttering. 

Once up the stairs, Geralt followed Lillianna to the end of the corridor to what was obviously the nicest room in the building. She stood in the doorway, playing with her hands. Hope filling his system, Geralt strode into the room, ready to finally apologise for everything he had said. But upon seeing the room devoid of life, he turned back to the barmaid. “Where. Is. He.” The words were short and sharp. Lillianna didn’t answer right away, which was either foolish or brave on her part. Instead, she walked over to the desk and held out a folded piece of paper from it. Geralt’s hands itched to grab his sword and threaten the woman into giving a straight answer, but instead he took the letter from her with little regard for being seen as rude or not. 

“He left this for you,” is all she said, before all but fleeing from the room and slamming the door shut behind her. Taking off his cloak, Geralt went to sit on the bed but stopped when he noticed the lute lying across the pillows. Now thoroughly bewildered and trying his best to keep his claws firmly in denial, he perched himself at the very opposite end of the bed and opened the letter. 

_Dear Geralt,_

_I know that what you said, you said out of anger. But that does not mean the damage was lessened any by that. I want you to know that I forgive you with my whole heart. I’m just hoping that you can forgive me. I know that you do not care for me, nor any of the things I have done or said. I know that I have only caused you trouble. But I only ever hoped that you could see past that. Alas, I was wrong, and my curse of bad luck followed you, too. Hopefully, now that I’m gone, life will become easier and you will finally be free of the burdens I have caused. I am no longer the hopeful bard from all those years ago, and many years of travelling have changed me. But finally, your wish has come true. By the time you read this, if at all you do, I will be but a memory and we will both be at peace. My one wish is that one day you will be able to realise that I did not only follow you around for your tales. I truly enjoyed your company and wanted nothing more than to spend every moment with you before my time ran out._ _I no longer have the energy for flowery words or romantic thoughts. Instead, I just want you to know that everything I own belongs to you. My clothes, my lute, my heart._ _Please care for my lute better than you did my heart._

_With love and regrets,_

_Jaskier._  


Everything in him seemed to stop. Geralt felt the blood pumping in his heart, heard his too short breath, tasted the bitter taste of…something. All of which were reminders that he was alive. 

He read the letter. Over and over and over and over, until he had the whole thing memorised. Finally, he was ripped from his thoughts by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Blinking away the tears he really didn’t want to admit to, but couldn’t stop, he turned to see a middle-aged woman with greying hair and a sad smile. 

“He loved you, you know?” Was all she said, waiting for him to react to her in any way. 

Instead, he looked back down to the now tear-stained piece of parchment in his hands, then up to the lute at the other end of the bed, before looking back to her again. It took him a moment to find his voice, but finally, he managed to ask one of the many questions racing through his mind. 

“How?” Was all he said, but the woman seemed to understand. She pushed herself up from her lean in the doorway, closed the door behind her, and slowly approached the bed, waiting to see if he would stop her. When he didn’t, she set herself a respectful distance beside him. 

“He came here a few weeks ago looking lost and lonely. The first night I let him stay here for free, with a meal and ale on the house. Neil wasn’t too happy but, after taking one look at the boy, agreed it was for the best. He didn’t really eat anything…at all really, for the entire time he was here. I was worried, and so was my daughter, but there is only so much you can do for a stranger. By last Sunday he barely looked like he should be walking. It looked so unnatural like it could have been make-up. He looked so tired. He barely spoke. He didn’t ask for anything. He just left us some money for the room and sat in the corner, thinking. Sunday night he asked me for something to write a letter with. I thought he was finally going to get in contact with whoever had broken his heart, and so I happily obliged. By the next morning, I went to check to see if he was alright and collect the letter for sending, when I found a note that told me to use the bag of coins on his desk to help pay for weary travellers with no coin themselves. I instantly knew something was wrong, and I made Neil hurry with me to the cliffs he had been spotted at a couple of times. By the time we got there, we were too late. His shoes, jacket, and lute were all discarded by the clifftop with that note tucked inside. It was obvious he had been sat there for a while. If only I’d gotten there sooner! But now he is sleeping in the sea. There’s no way a regular man can survive such a fall. 100 feet at least, with jagged rocks at the bottom and the sea to wash away any evidence.” She paused for a bit, staring at her hands, but not really seeing them, eyes glassy. “I’m sorry you couldn’t make it here in time to say whatever you needed to, though I doubt anything could have stopped him by then.” She fell silent again. 

Geralt’s head was spinning. Three days. He was three days late. Three days and everything would be different. A few more hours every night and he could have apologised sooner before it was too late. Instead, he was too late again. Too late to stop the djinn. Too late to turn around on the mountain. Too late to apologise. Something deep, and new, and old, and dark, and light, and horrible twisted in his guts. Too late to admit he loved him, too. 

He felt like screaming, like ripping the room to shreds, like sticking his hand through the woman next to him. Instead, he sat still and silent, hoping that it was all a dream, praying it was all a dream. Finally, after what felt like an age, he was able to use his voice again without the fear of breaking. 

“Where’s his stuff?” He asked. 

The woman he was guessing was Jessa from the conversation he overheard, reached under the bed, and pulled out one bag and a coat. She placed them between them on the bed and added the lute of the pile. 

“You can stay here for the night. I’ll bring you a meal up. But you need to be gone in the morning. The people here are more likely to do something violent if you stay any longer. We had all grown fond of the bard.” Jessa warned, before leaving Geralt to his thoughts. Carefully, he folded up the letter and tucked it in a pouch, which he hung off his belt. He then reached for the jacket. Bringing it up to his face, he let the familiar smell of wildflowers and pine envelope his already heightened senses, wanting to pretend it was the real person for just a second before he finally reached out for the lute. He was half expecting Jaskier to burst through the door and skald him for touching such a delicate instrument with his far from delicate hands. When no such thing happened, the reality seemed to hit just a little bit harder. He brought the bizarrely shaped instrument to himself and tried to copy what he’d seen Jaskier do so many times with apparent ease. Instead, all that came out was a rather angry ‘twang!’. Geralt quickly put it down and studied it. He’d definitely need lessons. He’d also need coins to help pay for them. 

He’d make it work. 


	3. 3.	(Re)Birth of a Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian starts to make his way home and meets friends, old and new alike.

Julian had lost track of time. He knew that he’d been travelling for more than a week, but, since he had made sure to keep off the main roads and away from society. He had made one stop off in a large town to buy himself a sword and some basic provisions he could not gather on his travels. After he had made this final purchase he was completely out of money and his only choice was to continue moving with no rest in a real bed. After what felt like an age of nothing but walking, hunting, and camping, he finally found himself at a port town where he was hoping he could discretely catch a ferry to his home.

But just as luck would have it, that was not how it happened. Instead, just as he was making his way to the docks he spotted a group of seven men decked out in full Tekkijaudan Royal Guard armour, who were currently stopped at a fishmongers stall with a piece of paper while the fishmonger himself was stood and explaining something in great detail while occasionally pointing at the paper.

After a few seconds of shock, Julian made his way carefully and discreetly through the mass of people to the vegetable stall next to them where he was able to hear what was being said.

“-and then you go down that valley there, through them trees, over that mountain, and you should be there,” said the fishmonger in a thick west country accent.

“And that will take us to Posada?” asked a vaguely familiar voice, though Julian could not quite pinpoint it.

“Yup. Though I don’t really knows why yus goin’. There’s nothing there that could possibly interest fancy mens like you.” Julian had to stop himself from cringing at the blatant butchery of the English language and instead focussed on the reply.

“There is not much that we can say, but we have been sent to check on someone of great importance to our homeland and to bring him back home.” Said a different voice. This took Julian by surprise. He had no idea that the rumours would spread so far so quickly, though it didn’t really surprise him. He knew that his family knew of his time as Jaskier the travelling bard, though he had not been able to contact them at all for fear of being found out and used as a bargaining chip, though he also did not want to return home until he was ready. Before he could truly think about what he was doing, he stepped forward with an air of indifference and confidence he was surprised to find himself actually possessing.

“Excuse me gentlemen, are you looking for me?” He said, smile widening as he spotted his swordsmanship mentor, Harald, and his once very-best-friend-in-the-whole-wide-world, Jimothy, as they turned their heads towards him.

A chorus of relieved “Julian”s reached his ears as he engulfed Jimothy in a big hug and Harald embraced them both. The five other only vaguely familiar faces kept a respectful distance away, though the small smiles on their faces were also present and genuine.

“We were all so worried about you. Everyone at home feared the worst. I’m so glad you’re okay. Everyone is.” Harald said, pulling and looking down at him from his towering 6’3”, before nodding and turning his head to glance around the small group, who all nodded. “Come, let us find somewhere more private so we can properly talk.” And with that, he led the entourage down the port to one of the smaller, though no less extravagant ship with the royal crest could be seen, with a dove flying surrounded by a wreath of buttercups, daffodils, dandelions, elderflower, and white tulips. It had been designed after the Long War was finally over and the three island nations became the Kingdom of Tekkijauda over a century ago.

The helmsman, who was just checking over the last of the supplies let out a cry of surprise when he saw guards returning so soon after leaving. It had only been four hours since they had set off, after all.

“Back already, captain?” he called. “That didn’t take very long!”

Harald chuckled, “It appears not. How long do the men need before we can set off again? I’m sure we can spare a few days.” He said as he strode onto the ship, looking around at the exhausted crew.

Julian finally managed to disentangle himself from Jimothy, not used to the constant affection as he had once been, but still giving him a pat on the back. “Well, if it’s all the same to you lovely gentlemen, I desperately need to get into a clean change of clothes and preferably have a bath. Could somebody please show me where I should be heading?” he asked, finally starting to feel the bone deep exhaustion settle in. “We will have to properly catch up again when everyone’s rested. I’m sure I’m not the only one who needs it.” He gave a pointed look toward a few of the guards who looked like they hadn’t received much sleep for a while.

One of the men, who upon closer inspection actually turned out to be a heavily armoured woman spoke up, then. “Your Highness-“ she stopped unsure of herself when Julian waved his arm in disregard for the title.

“Please. Call me Julian. At least until we get home. Or Prince Julian, if you really must. I’m not much one for titles, anyway, unless they can be chosen.”

“Prince Julian, then. Are you sure you’re okay to be alone? We know of the Witcher.”

At the mention of the Witcher, all joy he had been feeling slipped away from him as the hole in his chest made itself known again. The worried looks of the people surrounding him at the sight of his once so natural grin falling was enough to cut the moment short.

“I’ll be fine. As I said, we’ll catch up later. There are some things I need to tell you.” And with that, he walked off below deck, asking for directions from the resting crew until he came across the cabin that had obviously been prepared for him. It even had a lute.

He quickly searched the room for anything useful until he found two pairs of clean, rather expensive looking clothes, two bars of soap, one lavender and the other pine, a deep basin he could use for a quick bird wash, though not a proper bath, and a wooden toothbrush and cup. Just as he was taking inventory of everything that he had brought with him (one pair of boots, one set of worn travelling clothes, his red performance jacket as a memento, one days’ worth of dried fruits left, a bedroll, a sword and longbow with six arrows left for hunting food in the wild, and a necklace pendant of a daffodil that he had had for many years and had wanted to give to Geralt as a gift, but had never plucked up the courage to do so. But he felt like he was missing something, though he couldn’t pinpoint what), a young crewman, no older than 17, came in carrying a bucket of hot water. He looked to Julian for permission, which was given to him with a nod, then poured it into the deep basin before leaving. With nothing else stopping him, he quickly disrobed and set about cleaning himself until, finally, the dark makeup he had used to make himself more sickly than he actually was from all those day ago, was off, as well as the dirt he had gathered while travelling. As he washed, he found his thoughts travelling back to that day on the mountain. He had found himself stuck thinking about it a lot. Had Geralt really meant what he said? Did he really truly believe that everything that had happened was his fault? Because if so then he really needed a long hard look in the mirror. Julian’s pretty sure that the Blaviken massacre had been all Geralt, as Julian had barely even been ten when it had happened. And he didn’t have to claim the Law of Surprise. He didn’t even have to get _involved_ with it all. He could have just sat on the side-lines and watched, just like everyone else. Just like Jaskier had. And the djinn! Jaskier had all but _begged_ to leave! But did Geralt listen? Of _course,_ he fucking didn’t!

Julian slammed his fist down, hard on the basin, knocking everything off. He took a deep breath as he washed away the angry tears, but they just kept coming. After what felt like forever of him trying to calm himself down, he found himself stood, staring the now cold water, knuckles white in their grip on the basin, tears flowing freely.

_I should have taken them up on the offer of company_ , he thought as he finally managed to make himself stand up straight and start getting himself dried and dressed.

By the time Julian had made his way onto the deck, everyone was already freshened up and waiting for him, lounging around on some of the crates and talking. Everyone was in far more casual clothes, though they still had their sword strapped to their belts and backs, depending on their sizes. Without their armour, he realised that the women outnumbered the men, with there only being one more vaguely familiar man aside from Harald and Jimothy. If he had still been Jaskier, he would have jumped for joy at the prospect of trying to woo someone, but he knew that he no longer had to keep up the womaniser farce and was quite comfortable just sitting beside Jimothy and resting his head on his shoulder. Thankfully, already expecting this, Jimothy leaned his shoulder down slightly and rested his own head atop his. It was good to be back with his longest friend, who he had missed so much on his travels. He wondered what had happened in his life while he was away. A silence fell over the group before an older dark-skinned, and very muscular lady looked at Julian with soft eyes and said, in the most gentle voice she was able, said, “My name is Zabeth, these are Amelia,” she pointed to a pale-skinned young woman with short blond hair, “Tiffy,” a tanned woman with a large scar starting from below her collar, travelling up her neck, the side of her face, in front of her ear, and back around her skull, where her black hair had been cut to accommodate it, “Jenna,” a very tall woman with very pale skin, freckles everywhere, and auburn hair that was tied back in a bun, “and Owen,” the last, vaguely familiar man who Julian thought used to be his mother’s bodyguard. He was older, with grey hair cut close to his head, an eye missing, and a rather neat white beard.

Julian lifted his head only slightly to look at each person and memorise their names and faces, waving at everyone as she was done. “Hello everyone. It’s probably pointless me introducing myself, which is an odd feeling after all this time. Hopefully, I’ll get to know you all better by the time we get home.” He gave a small smile, not having the emotional capacity after his moment below deck to muster up anything else. A small chuckle went through the group. “I guess I should catch you up, huh?” Julian felt himself sigh as he sat back upright, turning himself to face more inwards, Owen and Tiffy moved to close circle, giving them more privacy as the last few stragglers from the crew finally made their way off the ship to find some food for themselves.

“Well. I guess I should start with saying that, though I am a bit heartbroken, I am actually mostly okay. All the rumours you heard were deliberate on my part,” A confused sigh of relief seemed to spread through his new, and old, friends. “I had had a bit too much to drink while performing for a stuck-up lord of bumfuck, nowhere. His wife and I had a drunken conversation in her chambers before she stripped off and fell asleep on top of the covers. His great lordship of dickishness found us and accused me of wanting to rape his wife. I got the hell out of there as soon as possible. However, it seemed as though he had enough money to pay for thugs and assassins to be sent after me. Who sends a fully trained assassin after a _bard?_ Anyway. I managed to lose them multiple times, but it became obvious they weren’t going to stop. So, I decided to fake my own death. And what’s the most realistic way for a heartbroken bard to go? Suicide of course. Plus, it gave me a lot more creative licence without having to get anybody else involved. It worked a treat, I’m assuming. The occasional mope, here, refusing a meal, there. Spending a while in the place you met the person you are supposedly so broken up about and wearing make-up to make you look much worse for wear than you actually are. It really worked. Though not all of it was an act, I’d never actually want to take my own life over the harsh words of an angry Witcher.”

Jimothy chuckled, “You always were one for dramatics. Tell us, did you write any depressing songs? Did you leave a poem, perhaps? Or were you more realistic, perhaps writing a letter to some pretend sister telling her how you’d miss her but cannot think of life in this cruel, cruel world anymore?”

Julian found himself snorting besides himself, thankful that even after all this time, Jimothy still knew just what to say. “Yes and no. I wrote two new songs, hoping that Geralt will hear them one day, and I wrote a bit of a bitchy letter to him. I know that it’s mean, but I was angry and wanted him to feel guilty. Though the guilt sits with me now. Maybe, if I hear that I’ve fucked up too badly, I’ll go and find him, or something. But I honestly doubt that will happen.” The small smile Jimothy had manged to conjure onto Julian’s face was now long gone. “He never really wanted me there. It was more like he put up with me and kept me from getting killed simply because of some fucked up morals saying that humans need to be protected or some shit. All those years of adventures and they probably meant nothing to him. All I did was slow him down and, apparently, according to him, cause him nothing but trouble.” He was ranting again, but this time it was out loud to people who could react and answer.

Before he could say anything else, he felt an arm around him, and he stopped in surprise. Jimothy had shifted so that he was able to reach his arm around him and shift him closer, into a one-armed, seated hug. Despite himself, Jaskier felt himself relaxing into the familiar warmth that he didn’t realise he’d missed. A few of the women that had obviously not expected it, were trying to hide shocked expressions, but Harald and Owen were completely used to the overly affectionate display. Julian was only a year older than Jimothy, who was the son of Harald. As such, they had spent a lot of time together during sword training, and then had started spending more time together outside of lessons until they had firmly cemented their lifelong friendship. They had had a brief fling when they were both teenagers but had easily agreed that it was not for them and had stayed best friends from then on. Jimothy was even engaged to a sweet girl called Nada from the lower city by the time Julian had left.

Seeing the looks being given them, and wanting to change the topic anyway, Julian turned his full attention on Jimothy. “How’s Nada?”

At the mention of her name, Jimothy instantly lit up.

“She’s doing great! We got married! I really wanted to invite you to be my best man, but I didn’t want to risk sending a letter in case any unsavoury people got hold of it and used it to track you. Sorry. Anyway! We’re expecting!” The excitement seemed to be catching.

“Congratulations! I’m genuinely so happy for you! Though I’m sorry I couldn’t be there on your wedding day. What are you gonna name the kid?” Julian pulled back to look his friend in the face, catching a glance at Harald over Jimothy’s shoulder to see the pride shining from him as well.

“We were thinking of Viviane for a girl and we haven’t decided on a boys name, yet. I wanted Julian, because of you, but she wanted something more flamboyant. Like Basil. We have yet to settle the disagreement.”

“What if it’s twins?” Julian asked, fighting a mischievous grin at the look of horror that spread across both the faces of father and son. “I’m just kidding! But you could always go for Jaskier. I was quite proud of that name when I came up with it and I don’t want it going to waste.” He offered, feeling unsure how they would react. Jimothy instantly lit up again.

“That’s a wonderful idea! It’s you and it’s flamboyant! Perfect! Are you sure?”

Julian chuckled and nodded. “Yes. I wouldn’t have said anything if I wasn’t.”

A huff of amusement from Amelia brought their attention back to the whole group, who they had accidentally been ignoring. Julian smiled sheepishly.

“We should probably head for some food, shouldn’t we.” Everyone either nodded or made a noise of ascent. The group of eight made their way off the ship in search for a decent restaurant, all feeling a lot lighter and happier than they had in months.


	4. Curses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is sad. Some people show up. Then he's mad.

For weeks now, Geralt had felt incomplete. The noticeable silence was now louder than ever before. His anger was now forever boiling just under the surface. Every monster was just a distraction. And every night, while dusk settled and the quiet made itself known once again, he would find himself sat next to the lute, reading the letter over and over again. Occasionally, he would hear a noise and look up hopefully, only to find a rabbit looking at him curiously, or a bird flying overhead. And every time, the hope would dim just a little more. For a while, he had refused to believe that Jaskier had really gone through with it. Perhaps he had just left everything in an inn in a town far from everywhere and had left. But the evidence was piled high against him. And he had caused it. Geralt had been so bad at emotions he had pushed one of the few people he cared for to suicide. The thought dug just a little deeper every time it cropped up. The emptiness in his heart aching and burning and freezing. He’d been right all along. He really was a monster.

He was gradually, slowly, retracing the steps of his first adventure with his late friend. If only then he knew just how much Jaskier would come to mean to him. How every time he saw the man with noticeable signs of ageing, ice would freeze his inside. How every time he smiled it was like the sun had come out. How he would come to enjoy his endless chatter and envy every single one of his conquests. How he would become so attached to the man that his fear and anger would push him away and towards the one thing he was afraid of happening. How Jaskier would die, well before his time, by his own hand, with Geralt himself the reason behind it. How much every breath would hurt, knowing that Jaskier could no longer take any of his own.

Would things have been different? Would he have tried even harder to send him away? Or would he have treasured him more? Or would everything have been the same?

Geralt found himself, once again, in a forest clearing, sat against a tree, Roach wandering about and grazing, saddlebags in a pile not too far from her, and lute laying beside Geralt, in place of its owner. Jaskier’s bag of clothes was separated from the rest, slightly open. He felt himself being drawn to it out of curiosity but resisted because he felt it would be wrong to invade his property. _But_ , said a small traitorous voice in his head, _he’s already dead. You can’t possibly make anything worse. Besides. He left everything to you. It’s yours now._ Still, he resisted. Yet still, it sat there, contents open to the world.

Finally, after what could have quite possibly been hours after the sun had set, Geralt gave in. He reached across the small clearing and picked up the bag with all the care he possessed in him. Inside, he found one clean pair of clothes that still held the lingering scent of Jaskier, which Geralt had found himself holding and burying his face in whenever he got overwhelmed, a songbook, empty ink bottle, and broken quill, a single pink carnation that had wilted and was wrapped in something thin and white and, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a strand of Geralt’s own hair, and there, at the bottom, was something he most definitely wasn’t expecting. (Many miles away, from his private cot, an exhausted prince sits up in alarm with the words “My dagger!” falling from his lips as he finally remembers what he’d forgotten.) It was the fanciest, most beautiful dagger Geralt had ever seen. The sheath was encrusted with gold leaf and pale blue sapphires, like Jaskier’s own eye, set in a flowery design, while the hilt of the dagger was encrusted in silver, and a pommel that held a very bizarre image that he could only guess was a crest. In the centre was a dove, surrounded by a wreath of all sorts of odd flowers and berries. Attached was a note that simply read;

_To my beloved songbird,_

_Come back safe_

Whoever had gifted the dagger obviously had a lot of money and strong affection for the late bard. Now fully curious, Geralt unsheathed the dagger. On first glance, it seemed to be the same as any other dagger, but upon further inspection, he noticed that what first appeared to be extremely intricate grooves, were in fact veins of silver running throughout the entire blade, with minuscule carvings on them, enchanting the dagger to last forever. It was not only made for humans but also to harm monsters as well.

Before Geralt could continue wallowing in his self-pity, a distant thump caught his attention. Immediately on alert, senses expanding to encompass the area, he quietly but efficiently stood in a ready position, dagger in one hand and sword in the other.

Though it was far enough that regular humans would not have heard anything, voices were laughing in the distance.

Relaxing slightly and returning everything to Jaskier’s bag, Geralt strained his hearing and started to concentrate on what he heard.

Three, no four voices, two male, two female. Words unclear due to too much residual noise in the area. Huffing and stomping of at least one horse pulling a heavy cart. The group were moving, despite the time of night and danger that doing so would involve, _so they must have at least one confident fighter. Good to know._ Another thump, like someone falling. Ah! Those words would be recognisable even without hearing the syllables. The unmistakable sound of a broken cartwheel.

 _Sucks to be them_ was the initial thought that went through his head, but even as it manifested, the notion felt wrong. He felt more than saw Roach looking at him, almost saying _“what would Jaskier do”_ and even though it was literally impossible for Roach to even know that there were a bunch of people in trouble, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t at least offer his help.

Huffing a sigh, bags were packed into a corner of the clearing, the fire was stoked, and, with a huffing sigh, Geralt started walking, sword loosely held in his hand, just in case.

As he got closer the talking became louder and the conversation could be made out.

“I swear we’re cursed,” said one voice, a deep feminine voice that could be mistaken for a young adolescent man to the untrained ear.

“You keep saying that,” said the other woman, her voice higher and with a thick accent that Geralt couldn’t place.

“Well, that’s because it’s true!”

“Oh will yu’ shut it with yer ‘curse’ talk? It’s startin’ to piss me off!” Barked a gruff male voice, deeper than Geralt’s own.

“Okay, look! First, we got paid fuck-all by some lord of bumfuck-nowhere, we gave him some of our blood, and then sent off on our merry way to find and kill some poor bastard bard that we cannot find, no matter how hard we look, even though we fucking know where he was! And then we learn that he went and fucking killed himself, meaning we’re getting no pay for this whatsoever, anyway! And then! FUCKING! THEN! On our way back to tell him this, the FUCKING CARTWHEEL BREAKS LEAVING US STUCK OUT HERE WITH NOBODY FOR COMPANY BUT YOU COCKWANKS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING NIGHT, AS EASY TARGETS FOR WHO KNOWS WHAT!!!” The first woman exploded, releasing what had obviously been a rant a long time coming.

“Calm ye tits, girl. We’ll be fine!” The last man tried to joke. His pitiful attempt at humour was followed by a hard _thwack_ of wood hitting flesh as Geralt stepped out of the forest just in time to see a large, muscular woman with a short afro swing a loose board from the cart into the face of an equally muscular (though much shorter) man with a buzz cut and very few teeth.

“Feel better?” Asked the other woman, the only thing visible from her cloak being her short frame and scarred hand as she held her hand out, silently asking for the plank of wood to be handed over. The tall woman nodded and handed over the plank f wood, before walking around to the other side of the cart and sitting with her back against it.

As the toothless man righted himself and started grumbling, the owner of the last voice, a gruff looking man with a surprisingly healthy head of long hair and beard, put his arm on his shoulder and looked up in Geralt’s direction, probably to instruct him to clear his head. Instead, all that came out was a shout of alarm.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Immediately, everyone was on alert, Afro grabbing a great sword, Hood grabbing a bow and notching an arrow, Toothless grabbing a pair of axes, and Beard pulling an entire Warhammer out of the cart.

Geralt’s mind was racing. On one hand, these people had been sent to kill Jaskier. On the other, they hadn’t actually done it. But they were still going to. But they couldn’t _find_ him? ( _focus on that later_ ) But they fully intended on harming and killing _my bard!_ But they are still just regular people that need help. _Jaskier_. How do you know it was Jaskier they were sent after? _It seems pretty fucking obvious_. Yeah. That’s fair.

Before he could properly make a choice, Hood released an arrow.

Jaskier flashed in his view, grinning with glee.

_“Kill them”_


End file.
